Mico, Mico
by wintry
Summary: A trio of stories- Draco would give everything for that strange spark. Harry would give up life to be guiltless. Lucius watches and mourns.
1. Voltage

**Voltage **

'This is not happening, oh God, this isn't happening'

It began for the same reason I begin anything. That spark, the very kilowatt base unit of passion- and it was there, fizzling between us as if it had nowhere else to go. I found it easy to discover electricity in the boy whose life revolves around a lightening bolt. 

I saw it only once, hurling forwards on a broom, reaching more for your face than the wings against my fingertips. And you, spiraling for the Snitch and only the Snitch, in that singular determination so typical to your flying. It was always a race. Everything between us was a contest and each competition seemed like the one to end it all. 

And there, crackling between your pupils and the streaks of green in your eyes, was that spark. I glared across at you and could not stop, and you- you must have thought that I would cower, the way I always do, and pull away just before impact. Distracted, we met in a headlong collision. I remember being tangled in your limbs, watching the blood pool in the folds of your Quidditch robes and feeling content. 

Even while I wondered whether it was your blood or mine, I was prying into those eyes of yours, searching for a remnant of that latent electricity. 

Later, the spark-frenzy had been broken out of me and I had gone back to loathing you. You slept with head mummified and prized Firebolt laid out like a funeral pyre at your feet. I sat up in bed and began staring you down. 

You were asleep, of course, but I took it as a plea for mercy when you gave a soft snore. It was another victory for Malfoy. I was one up. 

Another snore. You turned uneasily in your sleep. 'Don't grovel too much, Potter,' I said. 'It doesn't become you.' 

Me and my fantasies. I sighed viciously and staggered over to your bedside, brandishing the snapped handle of your broom like the wand of a giant. And then you cried out. 

Your legs shuddered, but your arms were taut, hands gripping your head as if preventing it from splitting into two even halves. I can't remember which one of us was whimpering louder. But your jaw muscles clenched spasmodically and I clutched the Firebolt's handle hard enough that I had to pick out splinters afterwards. 'Oh God.'

Most days I can think of a dozen different things that I want. All I wanted in that moment was for you to stop. So I crawled down next to you and scraped your fingers off your forehead, to hold them behind you and feel you tense and relax again and again. 

I hated you most then, whispering desperate comfort into your deaf ears and praying, praying for you to sleep in peace. I hated the feeling of my chest pressed against your back and I hated the way a flush prickled at my body. I despised you. 

Yet, it's said that the only emotion stronger than hate is love. I pushed myself too far, loathed you too long for a normal rivalry. Hatred and passion, a passionate hatred, and then emotion blurred and it became something else entirely. 

I brushed the back of your neck as you gave your last tremors and fell back into sleep.

The days after were explosive. You became constantly volatile, sensitive to the touch because the electricity was finally grounded in you. It would be awhile until an owl came dipping into the hall and dropped you another broomstick. The boycott for new school brooms was in full swing. 

There was no way for you to fly. 

I acted normal to an extreme degree, responding easily to your unnatural insults and challenges, perhaps more than I should have. We're older now, and childish brawls in the corridors were not tolerated for prefects. Despite this, chance meetings between classes moved us to hexing. Goyle and Crabbe were suddenly out of work. I was handling personal affairs, I was landing the underhanded curses and tackles. 

Anything to touch you, magically or otherwise. I played a delicate game, leading you slowly between hate to love. I looked you in the eye once a day, slipping glances between potion ingredients and magical beasts. Waiting for the instant when the spark would reappear and your spells would turn into caresses. 

I never caught it. 

Then you sabotaged my Quidditch practice. I opened the broomshed to find my brand new Firebolt gone. And where were you? Blending in with the obstinately grey sky, ringing magnificent loops and freefalls around the clouds on my broomstick. _My broomstick. I felt livid and wanted you all the more for it. _

A sudden downpour sheeted through the air, big heavy drops that clung desperately to my eyelashes. I stood there shouting at you to come down until I was surely red-faced, when you finally turned towards me and became a human cannonball. 

You dive-bombed for the ground, arms slack in their grip. 'Suicide' was my first thought. Sheer horror was my next.

No.

You prat, thinking to throw it all away. Thinking I could somehow forsake you, when I nearly had you on the brink of affection. Damn it, Potter. I can't need you any more than I do. 

I moved a little, shifted into target range. Maybe through the rain you didn't see me in your path until our second collision. Maybe you meant for your broom handle to crush through me. 

Love was the sound of my ribs cracking and the final spark seething in your eyes. You laid atop me in shock for a moment while I cried silent tears of blood and relief, and then you went so pale. Your glasses were fogged by spring showers. 

'Oh God' was all you could say, again and again. Love was hating you for it. 

I had my last embrace with you, my blood staining your hands and you screaming for help with such desolation. You shouted yourself hoarse, but no one came. Perhaps they knew that this was my last moment. My last with anyone, but particularly…

'_Oh God_, Malfoy…'

Love was feeling your touch and the lightning in the distance. 


	2. Aftershock

**Aftershock**

Good morning, Mr. Malfoy. Seeing as I murdered your only heir, I feel honored to attend his funeral.

Ah yes, you see, I misplaced something when I saw all that blood seeping through his robes. They call it my innocence, but that I had lost with Cedric's death. I, myself, call it my optimism.

I had been angry with him then. My second broom destroyed- really, it was his fault, you know, for becoming so abruptly out of character. I was depending on him to move both times. If anything, his cowardice– pardon -could be counted on. 

But all he did was gawk at me as if I had gone mad. I thought it was some ploy of his- you know I associate his face with Dementors now? Another ruse to throw me off my game. How was I to realize that I would throw his off forever?

I had such nightmares after. Not about him, of course not. Just the ones that I've always had, except so much more vivid. As if that crash had knocked something loose in my subconscious. 

Then there was our second collision, after I had stolen his broom. Now…now- I don't dream. 

I hallucinate.

It's like insomnia while you're asleep. I can't distinguish dreams from waking anymore because it's become so much the same. When I rant about an argument I had with that damn Malfoy- pardon –Ron looks at me as if he can't remember who I am, and what I'm doing here. 

Obviously, I wasn't friendly with your son. I'm sure you understand. Malfoy- Draco, that is, was never friendly with anyone. It seemed he felt that distance was natural, and that you built your life around who your enemies were, rather than who remained your friend. I was his enemy, and in his way he devoted himself to being mine. His voice often drove me mad because it was just so indifferent. I always wanted to take his words and stitch the warmth back into its rightful place. 

I can't imagine you want me to cry for him. No one else here seems to, passing the casket in wordless sobriety. Their whispers sound more like worship than condolences and grief. I have the sudden urge to…touch him, because no one else would do it. To see if his temperature has changed in death. Maybe lay down beside him, though he wouldn't feel it; he did the same for me when he thought I couldn't notice. 

I only hit back harder afterwards, feeling dazed and perhaps dazzled, not knowing up from down. 

He seems as if nothing had ever changed. The wonders magic can do. You had him arranged in Malfoy fashion, looking as if he expects death to bring no rest but only trials. His youth never had a chance. 

I understand. You did not bring me here to cry, nor anyone. I pass him silently, the only one to say no parting words. Something in me, those unshed dreams, perhaps, wants another glimpse of him. 

Instead I glance back and see only you, gazing down on him, your features calculated to deny emotion. Only the length of time you linger at his side shows any recognition. Your hand grips your cane so tightly, and you are dignified in black.

Deatheaters gathering in mourning look no different from Deatheaters otherwise. You did not bring me here to cry, but I know why you did. I see you have no virtue. I see you would kill the boy your son died in saving. The boy indebted to your heir. 

'So,' you say, your eyes turned upwards in a false plea for forgiveness. 'What last words do you have for my son?' 

My gaze pulls yours downward, ground-ward. 

'I don't owe you anything, Malfoy.' 

And you look at me, drawing your wand as if in grief. Your gaze is returned, to be sure. 

Good morning, Mr. Malfoy, and good night. 


	3. Static

**Static**

The roots of the Malfoy family are not our ancestors but our future. With every passing generation, our roots sink deeper, coil tighter around all things social and political and pull away from the emotional. The furthermost branches matter little now, as we bury ourselves further and further in. 

Only to wither and rot. 

My son. Perhaps I forced you in too far, but I cannot say I regret it. In the end, this severance is your making, cutting away the paths of your inheritance. I find myself becoming your heir, the most bitterly ironic of role reversals, sweeping together the little you had to offer me in death. 

So very little- for all we gave you, you have wrought nothing in return. Even your demise was a defeat, murder by that Potter boy you always sought to best. I will never understand how fate contrived to have you constantly repressed, as if in hope to stamp out the pride that makes you a Malfoy. 

I named you in hopes to nurture this pride. This you also failed- you never acquired the hide of a dragon or its fearlessness. Cowardice was one attribute I never meant for you to gain, but it seemed I found failure at every turn. 

I regret that I could not spent time with you. It became so difficult see my errors and know that, together, they completed my son. I was never one to be reminded of my mistakes, but there you were, my only heir, and there was no avoiding you. I made do and hoped that you would not find me to blame as the years went by. 

Those years were so numbered. It does not surprise me to feel such relief, almost overcoming whatever grieving I am here to do. 

I do not want there to be any notion that his murder is your avengement. Believe me when I tell you that he shall be killed in my own revenge, compensation for ways in which you failed me, time after time. I accomplish now what you never managed. 

What disgrace, leaving your burdens for Father to bear. Leaving me with no room to grow, as if denied our family's fundamental rights. Nothing remains unflawed, only your corpse and the unblemished translucency of your skin. One perfection you dared inherit. 

My own flesh has become sullied. It does not bother me, nor do I regret the sins I laid upon it, but I find that I resent the adding of another. This killing was meant to be yours, Draco, to be the first mark across your untouched hide. Instead, it becomes yet another stain on mine, somehow disenchanted because it does not break my skin's virginity, like it should have yours. It fades with all the rest. 

Your second mark would have been that of the lord we serve. 

Potter already has a mark of his own, lightning slashed across his forehead ever since that fateful night. He is already touched, while you remained so pure. This time, he cannot escape; he seems to know this, waiting for my curse to break upon him and break him one last time. His death serves so many purposes, and so he sacrifices and he waits and _wants it. _

His death would make yours seem worthless in comparison. There is only one answer, the answer to all questions involving Harry Potter, no matter how reluctant I am to give it. 

'_Avada__ Kedavra,'_

The mourners find approving silence for this second death, and all I see is the space where his eyes poured into mine. His limbs are splayed like a tree's roots, arms reaching toward you while I no longer can. 

The roots of our family rot away from within, a deadliness beating in its core. I cannot stand much longer. I cannot age and anchor this alone. 

Let lightning strike our ancestral tree. Let it fall, and I shall be content.  __


End file.
